Thistle and Weeds
by The Petulant Prodigy
Summary: He told me there are no bad hands dealt in life, only bad players. Maybe he's right. AU Ken/Ura yaoi. Warnings posted inside.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings: abuse, language, violence, angst, sex, character death, shota, and mega time-skipping. After this chapter, no/minimal time skips.**

* * *

**Thistle and Weeds**

**_Chapter 1. "It's getting dark, darling. Too dark to see."_**

* * *

He slaps me again.

I swallow the blood in my mouth.

"Piece of shit," he slurs, backing me against the doorframe.

My baby sister is screaming and pounding on the other side of the bathroom door.

She's only five. I'm nine and pasty with scrawny arms and legs.

"This is _my_ house, Kenny," he huffs, pulling at my hair until I'm screaming. He almost lifts me off the ground.

I drop onto the floorboards. I'm on my hands and knees and crawling back towards my post at the bathroom door before he kicks me in the stomach.

Momo's green and yellow bruises are all I see behind my eyelids.

"You're a lil' bastard, d'ya know tha? Your mum's a – a fuckin' whore. A whore," he repeats again, bracing himself against the hallway wall, his long black greasy hair hiding his eyes. He pushes himself further down the wall, cackling as he drags himself along.

I breathe heavily against the door. Momo's gone quiet.

I sit against the door, a human gargoyle. I hear the tv in the other room kick on. He laughs about something on the news, slurring his words together, talking to himself.

I still don't move.

I feel my face. Blood.

The cut along my left cheek from days ago must've reopened.

At least I hadn't lost my eye and Momo was alive.

I come back to myself when I hear Momo whisper my name, her voice blubbering.

She's a crybaby.

I shift my weight to stand up, ignoring the pain in my chest and head and open the door. Momo flings out, clutching at my bruised chest, her tears soaking through my shirt in seconds.

I drag her down the hallway, avoiding the living room.

We go to her room because it's the farthest away from our parent's.

I close her door, promising myself that one day every room in my house, my house, would have a lock. A big lock.

Then I take her to her closet where her comforter and some sheets are already creating a cozy nest full of her favorite stuffed animals. She grabs a light pink stuffed bunny with one eye missing and climbs into my lap. She's hiccupping as she tries to stop crying.

I hold her until she falls asleep.

I don't sleep.

I let my head lean against the back wall of the closet, but I barely blink.

The adrenaline starts to wear off. The pain increases.

I'm stiff all over and thirsty, but I don't move. I count Momo's heartbeats.

I finally close my left eye. It helps a little with the pain.

The man that calls himself dad falls in the hallway. He cusses. I want to kill him.

The closet door and bedroom door stay between us.

These are the facts:

Dad only drinks this much when he can't flip enough product.

Mom's passed out from the brown needle in her room.

My stomach rumbles, bile in the back of my throat.

Momo's in my arms.

I don't move.

* * *

**1 Year Later.**

I'm feeding Momo macaroni and cheese when she asks me if dad is dead.

"He went away."

Cops found enough dope in his trunk to put him away for the next five to six years.

He's a good actor: he'll probably get out in three.

Mom even said he was a good man trapped in a bad man's body.

Mom stayed clean while the cops were around. The only poison she'd had was a cigarette outside the courthouse. Long sleeved blouses hid the track marks. When she washed up and combed her hair and put on a bit of makeup, she could fake being human.

"Will he come back?"

Her eyes are on me.

So I tell her, "Not today."

* * *

**2 Years Later.**

I hate school.

I hate kids with big, fake smiles and white teeth. I hate teachers and their eyes. Their eyes are always on me.

I hate being stared at. Fucking hate it more than anything.

One of the boys tells his friend my hair should be in pigtails.

That I'm a girl, or a faggot, whatever that is.

I grab the legs of his chair and yank, watch him fall to the ground, his eyes wide, panicked.

I swing the chair around, knocking him in the face with one of the legs. He howls.

The teacher is on me in a second, other kids yelling and pointing.

I spit on him before the teacher drags me out into the hallway.

* * *

**3 Years Later.**

He gets out of jail the day after my fifteenth birthday.

When he shows up, he can't even take a shower because we couldn't pay the water bill.

He cusses her out, slamming his boots around, taking stock of what's left in the house.

She managed to keep her waitressing job for a while, but the habit was ruling her world.

Mom's sold almost everything by this point to pay for her shit. She pawned the television a week after his trial, followed by every stick of furniture. Everything from the living room and her bedroom was out on the front lawn for a yard sale a few times until everything was gone, even my basketball.

My bed frame got her about twenty bucks. Momo's little pink bike got fifteen. Mom's jewelry? About one-eighty.

I know she's fucked men. I hate her for it.

I watched a guy leave her room last week. When I checked on her, she was clutching about forty bucks and told me to order pizza.

She's lying on the mattress on her bedroom floor now, staring up at the ceiling with soulless eyes, an empty syringe and plastic string by her feet as he yells and yells.

"The car? The fucking _car,_ Nanao?"

The car is something I could forgive her for. We got about three grand out of that.

She never bought more than a few days' worth at a time. I waited for her to cook up the first batch, inject. Watched her sigh, go to heaven.

Then I took the twenty five hundred and buried it in various places in the backyard, little stashes for survival. We went months without electricity, but we had food. Paid the rent.

"Where's my baby?" she answers, curling in on herself, a small smile on her face, "Why don't you lay down? Stay with me."

And he does. I want to throw up. I can hear him fucking her from Momo's room.

I distract her with crayons I stole from the convenience store. She loves them.

I let her draw on the walls, anything she wants.

She's ten now, but the way she draws that unicorn, the way she smiles at me as she explains that I'm the knight riding it, I remember her five-year-old bruises.

Everything goes quiet. Too still.

I don't like that.

"Get in the closet," I say, Momo still clutching a sky blue crayon as I push her into the nook behind her trench of clothes.

"Kenny-"

"Silent as a bunny," I command.

She knows what this means. A sick game we play.

Rabbits only make noise when they're in pain.

I slide the door closed and am almost to her bedroom door when it opens.

He leers at me.

"There's my boy."

I stare back, head high, muscles tense.

"Been a while, huh? Where's Mo? I wanna hug."

"At a friend's."

He slides his eyes around the room, "Then what'cha doin' in your lil' sister's room?"

"Cleaning," I lie. I bend down to pick up a raggedy stuffed bear by my feet and toss it onto her small mattress, "Mom sure as hell doesn't."

His eyes narrow, "Watch your mouth. She's your mother."

"She's a corpse."

"I said to watch your fuckin' mouth!" he bellows.

It doesn't matter how long it's been, I'm used to the volume, the bravado.

He might as well be a gorilla banging his chest, salivating at me.

He's a beast.

Which makes me one, too.

"I'd rather call her a corpse than a whore."

Fuck. I haven't been hit like this in…

but I'm older now, and he's fucked up.

Must've shared with mom after round two or three.

I wrap my arms around his center, slamming into him with all my weight, pushing him back out into the hallway.

I cackle as the air leaves his lungs.

He's on the ground, defending his face with scarred hands as I pummel at his chest and ribs.

He's kicking out, yelling, threatening, but I'm blind with rage.

I hear something crack. Yahtzee.

I can't stop laughing.

He howls in pain and manages to punch me in the face. It glances off my cheek. Hurts like hell, but I feel amazing.

I'm alive. I'm fighting back and still alive.

That means something. That means…

"You son of a bitch," I seethe, spitting in his mouth when he cries out again. I spit again, getting it in his eyes as I pummel his face.

Crack. His nose.

_Ha._

HA_HAHAHA!_

I grab him by the shoulders and slam him into the floorboards over and over and over.

I'm as tall as him. My chest filled out. My arms and legs are long and still a bit wiry, but I've gained an impressive amount of muscle since his leaving.

My only friend, Kensei, a wannabe gangbanger, fights me all the time. We love it.

He got jumped into a gang in spring. I'm thinking about it. I really am. I've helped Kensei

push drugs to bring in a bit of cash. Never take 'em, just help him out.

And I love what this man looks like right now. A cowering, freaked out, drugged out wimp.

"Pussy," I breathe, spitting in his face again as I get up and slam my foot down on his crotch.

He howls again, turning over on his side in the fetal position.

Why was I ever afraid of this man? He's a helpless little child.

He's at my mercy. I could kill him. Right now.

Right fucking now if my baby sister wasn't a room away from me.

Giddy with rage and adrenaline, I reach down and tug at his hair, pulling a lot of the greasy strings out. He starts kicking, threatening to kill me, threatening to cut my throat while I slept.

I stopped, slamming his head into the floor again before reaching into my pocket.

A switchblade.

I hold the blade to his throat.

"You shut the fuck up," I breathed, my hand shaking from excitement and anger, "You shut your fucking mouth before I slice you wide open like your slut wife's cunt. You're not my father: you're not even a human being, you spineless, dick-less piece of shit."

I don't know how I don't scream: I don't even recognize my voice. It's guttural, all animal.

This is me. This is who I am.

And this man, this man deserves worse than anything I can do to him.

I watch him smirk: something in his eyes makes me want to throw up.

"You got the balls to kill your old man? Huh? You put blood on your hands, kid, you ain't ever getting it off."

I cut his cheek. His entire body stiffens.

I watch the blood on his face, mesmerized.

I cut him again. I laugh.

It looks like the number 11.

I grin at him. He's terrified.

I lick blood from his cheek. He's thrashing and finally manages to push me off of him.

"You little fuck! I'll fucking kill you!"

He's on his feet, shaky, sweaty, blood thirsty, my red 11 on his face forever.

One gunshot. Two.

I hear Momo scream through the wall.

His body jerks backwards then sideways, his eyes bulging like a fish.

He crumples to the ground.

I feel his blood on my face. I know it's splattered across my jeans and shirt.

I blink, staring at my mom down the hallway.

He's convulsing on the ground.

The gun is still in her hand, her eyes dead as she stares at the dying body.

He cusses, grabbing at my leg, tells me to call an ambulance.

Begs me.

"I found it in the trunk of the car before I sold it. I saved it for you," Mom said, her voice dull, robotic.

He cusses my mom out, like the worst I've ever heard.

His grip on my ankle loosens.

Nobody moves.

Momo's crying is muffled through the wall.

"Don't come out!" I yell. I know she's at the bedroom door. The crying is louder.

"Kenny!" she screams.

"I hate him," mom says, leaning against the hall wall, closing her eyes, "I've hated him since the day he was born."

I don't know what to say. The blood on me itches.

She turns and wanders back towards her room, gun still loose in her hands.

I slide down the wall. He's still twitching, gasping, but he can't beg anymore.

Mom closes the bedroom door.

Another gunshot.

* * *

Neighbor must'a called the cops.

The pigs swarm down on us. I don't let go of Momo even though I have dead man's blood on my shirt and she's hysterical.

At the station, we're pried apart and I sit in an ice-cold interrogation room, one wrist chained to the chair.

Momo's still young. She's pretty and doe-eyed and bandaged innocence.

She'll be all right. We'll be all right.

A detective comes in. He's got curly brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail. He needs to shave. He looks tired, but he smiles at me before sitting across from me with a folder.

"Hi there," he says, taking a sip of his coffee. He opens the folder and starts to recite his 'theory'. Tells me forensics is scraping the house.

A cut-and-dry case.

We're kids. Total victims. Harmless and blameless.

"We're working on finding next of kin. Do you have any uncles? Aunts? Grandparents?" he asks.

I don't want to look at him. I hate this place.

I just want my sister. I just want to burn my house down, get jumped into the Soul Reapers, and turn this shit life around.

"I want my sister."

"She's safe," he reassures, closing the file, "I promise."

"Promises mean nothing to me."

His eyes are intelligent. I can't trust him, though. That's not enough, "What you're going through, the shock…I can only imagine."

This is boring. I don't want his fake sympathy. I don't want his anything.

I don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing that I feel this indifferent.

"You've lost half your family in one day, Kenny. This is not something to be treated lightly. The last thing I want to see happen is for you and your sister to be put through the foster care system-"

"They were nothing to me."

He flinches. My face, my eyes, so much like the dead man's, must look sociopathic.

"My prints are on the knife. I carved him. That mean's you'll gimme a shrink. That means Momo will be separated from me. That means no family in their right fuckin' mind would take me in. Don't matter if it was self defense or not."

I lean forward slightly in my seat, "Watching him bleed, watching him die…I've never been so hard in my whole fuckin' life."

I feast on the silence.

"You're right about one thing," the detective started, looking down at his copies of crime scene photos, "You won't be seeing your sister for a long time."

I was okay with that.

Of course I wanted her. To protect her, to provide for her: I'd been doing it for so long that she was practically my child.

But there was a family out there that could provide for her in a way that I couldn't, not without getting into some dark shit.

I was a year away from being able to emancipate myself: I couldn't provide for her until then anyway, not to mention make enough to support not only myself but her as well.

She deserved a big house with a mom that cooked and cleaned and smiled, a dad that came home and kissed her forehead and read to her at night. Fuck, maybe even a dog or a bird or something.

She'd have all the crayons and markers she could ever want. A princess pink bed with fluffy curtains on the windows and all the stuffed animals she could handle.

She wouldn't be afraid of doors or forced into closets.

She wouldn't have a brother to cry over every time he got beat on by a druggie drunkard.

"You pick angels for that little girl, do you understand me? The kindest, sweetest motherfuckers on the planet. You make her safer than safe."

The detective, Shunsui, said he'd do everything in his power for Momo for our sakes. He asked me a ton of questions, most of them answerable. Yes, those people had been drug abusers. Yes, he would drink until he passed out in his own vomit. Yes, she had prostituted herself and sucked cock for about the same price as going to the movies and getting some popcorn. Yes, he would beat me so bad as a child I'd go two days without moving.

Court was boring. Pathetic.

The news was even worse. Now everybody in town, maybe even the fucking country, pitied me for about a week.

The only reason I put up with any of the bullshit was because I got supervised meetings with Momo.

"I don't_ want_ to go live in a new house!" she cried, trying to bury her head into my neck.

The officer and psychiatrist watched us from the door. We were in one of the psychiatry offices, sitting on a couch.

Momo had already been adopted by some teary-eyed rich couple who'd been heartbroken at the news coverage. A sweet, innocent little girl like Momo: all you had to do was look in her huge sad eyes and you were putty.

It was a good thing. Rich couple with no kids meant she'd be spoiled silly, treated right. It was perfect.

"I can't come with you," I answered, running my hands through her hair as she tried to claw her way through my chest, "I have to go to…school for a while. You're going to have so much fun you're not going to think about the sad stuff. You can eat as much candy as you want. I bet they'll even let you have a horse. You'd like that, huh?"

She sniffled and looked at me. My heart was in my stomach.

"But you won't be there. Who's gonna tuck me in? Who's gonna hide me?"

I kissed her forehead. We'd been having therapy sessions together for about three weeks, the psychiatrist convinced my presence would help her deal with the unseen trauma she had experienced. I dunno about all that psychoanalytical bullshit, but anything to see Momo.

"You don't have to hide anymore."

"But…you read me stories, and play with me. You're my knight."

I saw the psychiatrist scribble something down out of the corner of my eye. Momo was ten, but maybe I'd raised her wrong. She talked like she was five.

"I'm asking you to be a big girl, Momo. To be brave. You can do that, right?"

She wrapped her arms around my neck and I held her there, perfect for that moment.

"I love you, Kenny."

"I love you too, Mo."

We were separated after that.

I had to see a psychiatrist daily.

I was allowed to receive mail from Momo. She sent me crayon drawings mostly.

The inner city group home for boys wasn't so bad. I was bigger than all the boys except a Spanish boy named Yami. He was always pissed off about something. We fought sometimes, but it was nothing serious. Apparently we both liked the adrenaline of fistfights.

He'd been jumped into The Hollows. What a fucking moron.

I caught up with Kensei. Got jumped into the Soul Reapers. Got the mark tattooed on my forearm. Got paid to beat the shit out of people who didn't pay up or fucked with the gang. It was nice.

I was ruthless. I got noticed. The higher-ups were impressed with a bastard from nowhere who could fight like a possessed demon.

I didn't have limits anymore. That was the difference. Since the death of the beasts, I was a new animal.

I took what I wanted when I wanted it with my own power, my own will.

I didn't fear anything, which made me unpredictable and scary as fuck. I wasn't sixteen yet, but I was getting big and the scars on my body, especially the one on my face, did a lot of talking for me.

If you fucked with me, I broke you. That was it.

Over the next six months, boys came and went. Some were back a few weeks later, laughing, while others never came back, adoptions having been filed.

Me and Yami stayed. We were bad eggs. That was okay with us.

A new brat was brought in. Scrawny little thing, thin as a pole and pale as snow.

His hair was silver, almost lavender in the right light. Slitted eyes like a snake.

He watched me a lot. I ignored him until one day I'd had enough and was beyond irritated.

"Wha' the fuck do you want?" I'd asked, exhaling cigarette smoke into his face.

He'd smiled, eyes slitted, "Mah, nothin', really. Jus' followin' the power."

"You high?" I said, wary. I might've pushed drugs, but I'd never touched them. I refused to.

He shook his head from side to side, "Nah, but my Ma used 'ta gimme 'ta her boyfriends 'ta pay for 'em."

He opened his eyes. Ice blue.

"But I'd suck ya, if ya asked me to."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

So he did.

It was fucking awesome.

He even let me cum on his face and licked it up afterwards.

Fucking sick and hot.

Things progressed quickly from there.

After I fucked him in the ass, I learned his name was Gin.

He was fourteen. His mom had overdosed. He was alone, just like me. He loved music and cigarettes and sucking cock. He could pickpocket anyone. He looked so hot in white skinny jeans I'd get a boner just having him walk by.

And he was smart. Fuck, the smartest motherfucker I'd ever met, but funny, somebody I wanted to be around. He became a Soul Reaper. I'd take him with me when I had to chase money for the family. I watched Gin nearly beat a man to death with a metal pipe before lighting a cigarette, the hottest thing I'd ever seen.

We fucked four times on the dude's kitchen table while he was unconscious.

Then stole anything in his house worth a shit and pawned it and spent the money on beer and clothes and new tattoos. He got his navel pierced for me, so I humored him and got my tongue done. Hurt like hell three days later, but the swelling wasn't so bad. I'd had far worse pain in my life.

A year had passed. I was almost seventeen, violent, and okay with it because I had Gin by my side, grinning like a fox through his cigarette smoke.

It was like having a best friend you could fuck whenever you wanted however you wanted.

I got emancipated. Just a couple papers filed through the system. A fee I paid with drug money.

I changed my name while I was at it.

Zaraki. Zaraki Kenpachi.

Nobody would ever call me Kenny again. I couldn't even remember the dead man's last name. I'd never carried it, but I didn't want the whore's last name to linger in my memory either.

So I was reborn again. Me and Gin fucked to celebrate, and he screamed my new name so loud it made me cum.

My gang family set me up in a one-bedroom apartment. I easily maintained rent 'cuz I was taking on more jobs. I didn't even have to run drugs anymore: basic beat-ups, money-chasing, and bodyguard shit. I'd pick up prostitutes and mistresses for the higher-ups. They'd always want a piece of my dick, but women, especially loose women, made me want to vomit.

Sometimes I'd run men, too. Some my age, some older, but it wasn't my business. I was fucking a dude, so I couldn't judge.

The years started to blur. Jobs evolved. The real money was in killing.

Killing scum. Well, I had history with that, didn't I?

By twenty-one, there wasn't a man in the city that didn't cringe or piss his pants at the mention of my name.

My back was inked with a black and red demonic dragon, the glory of my rising name, the glory of my kills. Old Man Yamamoto didn't like me too much, said I was a loose bullet, but Kaien liked me a lot, said I was more fun than a barrel of monkeys, whatever that meant.

Kaien was in his late twenties, young as fuck to be head of one of Old Man's branches, but he was about the only man in the gang I ever listened to. He was too fucking cool to disrespect, you know? He wasn't like the others, scrambling for money and respect. He partied and banged bitches and smiled when he shot you, you know? That feeling, that feeling like if I could ever have a real family, he should've been my older brother. An unpredictable crazy fuck that still knew his business, kept his head when he needed to for the sake of keeping Old Man the fuck quiet.

Yamamoto was the only one who seemed to talk shit about me anymore. Kaien thought it was because he was scared of my power.

Fuck all that noise. If the Old Man didn't watch himself, I'd put a bullet between his eyes, too.

Other families feared me. Think about it: a bunch of old fucks shitting their pants over a 21-year-old bastard brat.

I was raking in so much cash I'd gotten a bigger place, a nice apartment. Gin practically lived with me. I didn't know what we were: we didn't get emotional, but we fucked the shit out of each other, and we were best friends, so it worked.

I don't care if he fucks others, just so long as he's on my dick when I want him, it's all good.

But most people know he's mine, and the threat of my name is usually enough to keep their dicks in their pants.

I fuck a girl or two to see what happens. I don't like it much. They sound weird and feel too wet. Or maybe they're too loose. I dunno.

"How 'bout a threesome?" Gin says with a smirk one night while we're lying in bed. He's smoking a cigarette, his cum still on his chest.

"Who you thinkin'?" I ask.

He grins, "How 'bout Blue?"

The new one, a low-rung yakuza. He's a Hollow, but we've dealt with him before. He was attractive, yeah, and also a total cunt with his attitude. We fought like crazy. Maybe 'cuz we were too much alike. He fought like he didn't care if he died, like me.

It was sexy as hell.

"Yeah. Why not?"

I liked fucking Grimmjow.

Maybe a little too much.

I'd watched him fuck Gin for a while and then gotten antsy, getting behind him and just going for it, slaying his hole.

I'd only pummeled him a minute before he came, but it was hot watching him shoot his load all over Gin.

We all smoked afterwards and watched a football game on tv.

We became the world's most fucked up exclusive triangle relationship.

I didn't fuck anybody but them, and Grimmjow didn't let anybody fuck him but me. I let him fuck Gin, but Gin preferred bottom, so I was usually greedy and got both their holes in one night.

And when I was out of town, they had each other. Or when one of them was called out on business, I had the other. We always had someone to fuck, which was the point, right?

It lasted a while. I'm shit at keeping track of time: it doesn't mean anything to me, but one day I come back to my pad and the stereo is on and it reeks of pot and Gin and Grimm are just going at it like animals so I grab a beer out of the fridge and settle in to watch the show.

I'm surprised how long Grimm lasts but when he comes it reminds me why I only let animals be around me. He roars, and it's so loud, and then Gin's shaking and clawing at him, and then they make out with tongue and shit.

That's when I know this isn't just sex. This is something I don't understand, and it pisses me off.

They don't just wanna fuck. This is something deep and personal.

They light cigarettes. Gin stares at me. Grimm's eyes are still wild-looking.

"You hard?" Gin asks.

"No."

"You gonna be a punk if I say I love your man?" Grimm asks me, holding out his pack of cigarettes.

I get up from my chair and approach the bed, swipe the box.

I tug one out with my teeth, light it.

Exhale.

"Nah. Go wild. Jus' don't do it in front'a me no more."

Gin kisses Grimm before slinking out of the bed and kissing me on the cheek, "We had a lotta fun. Still best buds?"

"Forever, ass hole."

He laughs. Grimm chuckles and bumps fists with me.

They get dressed and kiss again before leaving.

And I laugh as I light another cigarette, 'cuz it's so damn funny and I don't feel a fucking thing.

* * *

**About 3 Years Later.**

It's almost midnight, but I decide I want coffee.

I head downtown on foot. Nobody's fucked with me on the streets in years. Besides, I like to walk. I'd actually managed to cut back on the smoking in the past few months, been working out more. Maybe I'll hit the gym tomorrow after punk-chasing runs with Gin.

There's an all-night diner downtown. Best pancakes in the fucking city and the coffee is my drug of choice: I don't go often 'cuz I don't wanna spoil the magic.

I walk in. Take a corner booth. Grunt at the waitress with the perky tits.

She brings me my coffee. I'm sated.

She keeps dropping hints, annoying me with her body language and tone of voice.

What about my appearance says I appreciate the cutesy approach?

"I don't care how wet your pussy is, I'm not interested," I finally say.

She blushes and stutters, not sure if she should be offended or embarrassed. She might cry. Or run. Either is okay with me.

She drops my pancakes on the table and high tails it to the other side of the diner.

"That was rude."

I don't know who's talking, but I might kill 'em.

No. Not might. Will.

I look up. The booth in front of me is occupied.

Bright grey eyes are looking back at me. Blonde hair, attractive face. I'd say pretty boy, but there's something impish about him, something that reminds me of Gin.

He looks nothing like Gin, but there's a confidence there, a devilry. I don't know how I know that, I just do, so I narrow my eyes at him.

He's not an idiot: he can see my tags; he sees the scars. If he doesn't know who I am, he at least knows what I am.

He looks pretty damn normal. White shirt, blue scarf. The table is covered in empty cups of coffee, a half-eaten slice of pumpkin pie, and thick books.

"I think you should apologize," he continues, picking up his fork and taking a bite of pie, chewing it with a humming sound before looking at me again, "She's the sweetest waitress here and is responsible for this orgasm-inducing pie. If she stops making amazing pies because you're not a people person, then I'll have to stop coming to this diner. If I have to stop coming to this diner, that means I have to scout this god-awful town for the second best pumpkin pie, and I will be furious knowing that I _could_ be enjoying the best pie in the city if it wasn't for a grumpy guy who couldn't be polite and just let a girl dream."

He takes another bite.

I just stare at his mouth.

"Oh," he says, smiling at me. I mean, a fucking _knock out_ smile.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

He shrugs, "You like men. Still, I think you should apologize. Or leave her a nice tip."

He gets up from his booth with his plate of pie and fork and sits across from me. I watch him lift some of the sweet-smelling stuff onto his fork and hold it out to me like I'm a toddler.

"Come on. I promise it's delicious."

"Are you fuckin' crazy?" I grumble, totally uncomfortable.

It's been a long time since somebody's made me uncomfortable. Usually that's my job, cuz, ya know, my fist is in their throat or something. Or I'm sawing off their fingers. Or breaking their ribs when they get feisty and think they have a chance and decide to hit me.

He shrugs, "Well, that's not the medical term for it."

And I realize I haven't hit him yet because I kind of respect him. How can he sit here, trying to feed me a piece of his fucking pie? I'm a yakuza: I'm trouble, I'm evil, I'm all kinds of fucked up.

I could slit his throat right here if I wanted to.

But I'm not.

"Fine," he says with a shrug, "More for me."

He bites it. I stare at his mouth again.

"Your pancakes are getting cold."

I take a drink of my coffee and decide to confess.

"You think it's smart 'ta fuck with me?"

By this point the pie is almost gone, "Hm?"

He looks at me with the fork still in his mouth, his bangs over one eye, and shit, I don't like that I don't wanna hurt him right now.

I wanna laugh, but it's kind of hot, too.

"I'm a Soul Reaper, you fucking idiot."

"Are you sure you don't wanna try this pie? Only a few bites left."

I shouldn't kill him. I keep reminding myself that he's just a crazy fuck in a restaurant, totally innocent. I really shouldn't hurt him.

"My name's Kisuke," he says, holding out a hand, a smile on his face, "Urahara Kisuke. I dunno if you're thinking about killing me, but your face says you are, so if you decide to, would you at least make sure my grave marker is in the shape of a cat? I'd also like to be buried with my favorite hat. It's white with green stripes."

"You too stupid to get scared?"

"Do crazy people get scared?"

What a fucking psycho. He's probably my age, maybe a year younger, but what a fucking weirdo.

So I take his hand in a firm grip. Hard, then drop it.

He smiles again. Blood rushes to my dick.

Fuck. What the hell.

He finishes his pie, tells me to be nice to the wait staff, goes back to his table and gathers up his books. He waves to me before leaving.

I still don't know what the fuck just happened.

I finish my meal and leave the girl a hundred dollar tip.

* * *

_A/N:_

_I don't think this story is going to be very long, but I got really caught up in Kenpachi's background. I got a bit obsessed with trying to make a strong AU origin since there's nothing on his young life in canon: part of Kenpachi's appeal is not knowing exactly what happened to him to make him the man he is, but at the same time, I'm a sucker for back story. I'm going to be updating my other stuff soon, no worries. I just got crazy inspired listening to music the other day. Just to clarify, it's not associated with my story Tipping The Scales in any way, they're not connected. Thanks._


	2. Chapter 2

_Life is severely kicking my ass right now, so no apologies. -TPP_

* * *

_**Warnings: language, violence, beautiful nerdy things, fluff.**_

* * *

**Thistle and Weeds**

**Chapter 2. _"You'll never be what is in your heart."_**

* * *

"Since when do you like pie?" Gin asks, his smirk eating his face.

We're sitting in the diner. It's almost three o'clock in the morning. I can smell the chemicals on him from across the booth, the burning chemical smell you get from shooting guns.

Unlike him, I hadn't needed a gun tonight. Just a shakedown downtown. That ass hole had been hard to hunt down, I'd give him that much. And for some reason, his ass hadn't ended up in a hospital. Gin, on the other hand, had been at the docks for the past few nights doing interrogation for the Old Man.

Smelled like the interrogation was finally over.

"I'm tired," I say, taking another bite of the super sweet and creamy pumpkin pie.

"Yer gonna get fat," Gin singsongs, chuckling when I glare at him.

"I got muscle, you stupid cock slut."

He winks and swipes a bite of my pie before chugging the last of his espresso, "Well, honey, if 'ya want a divorce, why don't'cha jus' say so?"

"Where's Grimm? Shouldn't you two be fucking in a dark corner somewhere?"

"Speakin'a which, when's the last time _you_ fucked?"

"Yesterday."

It was true. Kind of. A cute blonde at one of Kaien's favorite clubs had sucked me off.

Blonde hair long enough to tug, but the boy had been too high to communicate with, which bothered me. I tolerated drugs but they always made me think of the life I left behind.

"A blowjob doesn't count," Gin says, his serious face on for once.

Gin knows me too well.

"I don't need 'ta fuck twenty times a day like you."

"That's not how my ass remembers it," he answers with a smirk, "but whatever, baby. With that kamikaze dick, you'll never have trouble getting a cutie."

I watch him get out of the booth, throw down a twenty to cover us.

He kisses me on the cheek, "Do something nice for yerself, idiot. All work and no play makes for a borin' bad ass."

He leaves. I finish my pie.

Then I tell the waitress to bring me a short stack with a side of bacon.

* * *

I've got one slice of bacon left on my plate when I hear the door chime with a new customer.

The kid looks a right mess.

He's wearing black pajama pants covered in pink and red kissy lips and a blue Care Bear t-shirt with a white jacket that has a panda head for the hoodie. His feet are in black booties with fake grey fur trim. His green messenger bag says _'EINSTEIN MAKES ME WET'_ in big black block print and his hair is held back by a purple headband, exposing his ears which have two holes punched into them.

I never understood that gauging shit. What if he got in a fight with somebody and they pulled on his ears and ripped them clean open? It makes my stomach turn over to think about it, and I've killed before.

One of the old waitresses calls him 'sweetie' and he heads for a back booth, sliding ear buds into his ears as he starts drumming his fingers against the linoleum tabletop. His head bopping, he goes into his messenger bag to retrieve a thick book and a composition notebook.

I'm still staring as he starts scribbling madly into the notebook before dog-earing the page and flipping open the thick black tome he took out, jumping page to page and underlining things here and there before doodling in the margins. What the fuck is he doing?

I watch the old waitress with the grandma vibe bring him a coffee in a big yellow mug and a bowl of sugar cubes. He smiles at her and plays with his ipod a second before closing his eyes and moving his hands like he was directing an orchestra.

And I'm just sitting here, watching him…like…

No the _fuck_ I was _nawt_ waiting for him to show up all these weeks. No _fucking_ way.

It's been at least a month since that pie incident. And what the fuck was he doing here at…what, quarter to four in the morning? This place was a graveyard except for the one or two trucker-type guys grabbing a bite before hitting the road long distance.

The first few times I'd come this early in the morning I'd gotten fearful eyes from the staff: like I'd ever hold up a shit hole like this for a couple of bucks. Insulting.

Just 'cuz I look the part. Fuck them.

I leave a tip and dip out while he's absorbed in his stupid book.

Then I stand outside like an idiot for probably fifteen minutes. I smoke a cigarette then convince myself I don't need anymore. It's cold, but only with the wind. I'm glad I was smart enough to grab a jacket.

"Fuck it," I say, taking out another cigarette and lighting it. I lean against a streetlight and indulge my crappy lungs.

Then I hear a weird tapping noise.

It's persistent, kind of annoying.

I turn around.

And there he is, the Kisuke kid, pressed up against the glass of the diner window where his booth is at, his hand tap-tapping against the glass as he smiles at me.

He waves his head like he wants me to come inside.

Jesus fucking Christ. What the fuck is wrong with me?

I flick my cigarette into the street and go back inside the diner like an idiot.

"Hey you," he says cheerfully, taking one ear bud out of his ear as I stand by his booth. He waves to the empty side, "Take a seat, my dark mysterious friend. Lurking takes a lot of energy."

"I wasn't lurkin'," I say with a glare as I sit down, my hands in my jacket pockets as I hunch back against the booth bench.

"I like your pouty face," he says, picking up a red pen and scribbling something into the margin of the big book with tiny block text, "you could be cute if you wanted to."

"Want me to cut you?"

"Pie," he answers, sticking the pen behind his ear and taking out the other ear bud. I can hear violins, "I need pie now."

He waves at the grandma waitress and she comes over with a smile. She smiles at him and than me. She's the only one on staff that doesn't seem to be intimidated by me. Besides, she's such a sweet, stereotypical grandma figure I could never bother her. And she always refills my coffee without asking.

"A slice of pumpkin spice pie, please. And a slice of raspberry, please. And another coffee, please and thank you," Kisuke says.

"With extra extra whipped cream, sweetie?" the waitress chuckles.

"Oh Lucy, if you weren't happily married with three gorgeous grandchildren-"

"And I was fifty years younger," she laughed, shaking her head as she left, "Mind your manners, Kisuke."

"Yes ma'am!" he called after her. He smiled at me, "That's Lucy. She's my favorite. Don't make her cry, okay? She lets me call her Granny."

"I wouldn't. She's cool," I answer, the words slipping before I can pull them back.

His smile makes me want to punch myself in the face.

"I get worried when she works shifts like this. She should be working the safe 9 to 5s. Then again, she only works to get out of the house once in a while. She's an amazing ceramic painter. She gave me a flower vase for Christmas last year. And she can knit pretty much anything. She knit my cat a sweater too," he says, chewing on one of his pens while scanning another page before closing the book and staring at me, "So how are you?"

This guy…just…

"You're fucking weird, you know that?"

Fuck his smiles. _**FUCK THEM.**_ My stomach knots up when he does that shit.

"Well, I don't see what that has to do with how you're doing. You look tired. Do you work late nights?"

"You could say that."

Kisuke tilts his head slightly, his face going strangely blank, "Not just any night job. A gangbanger…no, more specifically somebody a little higher up the totem pole in the Soul Reapers. You started out low, like they all do, but you're above that now. You were a two pack a day man but are struggling to quit: the fact that you just talked yourself out of a third cigarette suggests a psychological anxiety but it's not bad enough for you to go back to the terrible habit. All these years with the Soul Reapers and you still have a sense of morality about you. No, not just that, a sense of justice. The scars on your face and hands are stretched: I'd say over ten years old, which means you come from an abusive home. You're ambidextrous and favor your left leg because of some kind of accident two, no, three years ago. Some kind of knee injury: I'm assuming a bodyguard duty gone wrong. To be a bodyguard takes not only focus but skill and loyalty, and since you're sitting here alive, you must be all three of those things. You're not a drug pusher, so you must be a high-end chaser or an assassin. I think you've killed before. No, I _know_ you've killed before, but it's good money and they're bottom-feeding scumbags that nobody will miss. The way your tone of voice changed when I was talking about Lucy suggests you're a good man, a man who wouldn't involve innocent pedestrians in your gang business. I think I can trust you. You prefer knives to guns but, of course, as we all know, you're probably packing a .22 in case you cross territories: out of necessity, not ego. You never leave your apartment without being strapped."

The pie arrives. Kisuke dips a finger into the extra whipped cream and makes a pleased purring sound that goes straight to my dick.

"You some kind of detective?" I say, my voice gravel. The kid was fucking good, and good meant dangerous. It would suck to have to kill this kid later.

He smirks and takes a bite of pie, "No, I just pay attention. I like details."

"So what? You make all this shit up to stir up trouble?"

He sighs and licks his lips after another bite of pie, "You're wearing a jacket now, but I remember the first time I met you: very distinct tags, so not much guess work there, although I was surprised to see your rank, which means you're not just anybody. Your scars, the way you walk, the way you move, even the way you blink: they tell a story. I just read the story and go from there."

"And me being ambidextrous? My knives? My apartment? You fucking following me?"

Kisuke sighs, stirring his coffee, "No no no, no I would never. I'm assuming you're ambidextrous based on the last time you ate your fork was on the right and the knife was on your left: this time they were switched. As for the knives, your hands are scarred, but your thumbs and pointer fingers don't look callous so I don't think you use guns often. As for living in an apartment, I'm assuming that you keep to yourself in your profession, you're young, and you roam, so I don't think you would tie yourself down with a responsibility like a house, so I stand by apartment: it's smart, practical, low maintenance. I just…please don't be offended by anything I may have implied: you just seem so interesting, the farthest thing from boring I think I've encountered in a long time. I hate being bored. I can't stand it, so here you are, wondering if I'm a threat to your gang family, trying to figure out my end game, but I'm going to tell you that I don't have one other than having some coffee and pie with a new friend that I find absolutely fascinating."

It's then that I realize I want this kid.

I want him. Fuck.

"You want some? There's more than enough to share," he says, holding up a second fork Granny left us.

I'm stuffed from all the food I just ate, so I shake my head no.

He shrugs, "Too bad. The pie really is the best in the city."

I watch him load about ten sugar cubes into his new coffee, take a sip, grimace, then add about five more before stirring it with a spoon. Then he globs a big piece of the raspberry pie smothered in whipped cream right into the coffee, stirs again, and sips, totally content.

"Do you eat pie everyday?" I ask, pretty fucking fascinated with this cute fast-talking super computer.

"Not everyday. It's a special treat. Helps me get through my papers."

"So you're a student."

He smiles, "Definitely."

I stare at the cover of the book I had thought was a Bible: _The Complete Works of William Shakespeare._ I don't even know who Shakespeare is.

"Oh, sorry. I'm giving a lecture on Othello tomorrow and I'm not really prepared. Do you like Shakespeare?" he says, petting the top of the book like it's a cat.

"I don't know. Never read 'im."

"Most people don't, or they've seen a play performed or a remake in a movie. His plays are fantastic, though. I love his work. You should come to my lecture tomorrow and learn more about him: I'll be showing clips from the play," he says, and he sounds so excited my face almost cracks. Almost.

"That's a lot of work for a student."

"Oh, well, I'm a professor too."

"You're too fuckin' young to be a teacher."

He laughs, "Why does everybody say that?"

"Cuz it's true. You're what? Twenty-four? Twenty five?"

"Just turned twenty-three," he smiles and takes another bite of pie, "I teach Philosophy of Literature and Organic Chemistry. I'm more of a student-teacher: it's one of the requirements to keep my scholarship. Does that bother you?"

"No. Why would it?"

Kisuke shrugs, "I was worried you might not like younger men."

Now I'm uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable. Why am I still sitting here with this freak?

"Unless I'm wrong. Unless I'm really wrong and I'm offending you right now, but your pupils are slightly dilated and you've had your head cocked slightly for a few minutes now: in a recent scientific study I was reading it said that angling one's head implies sexual attraction. I believe the attempt to label sexuality is absolutely ludicrous, but I hope I'm not offending you. I think you're really interesting and I don't really have a lot of friends."

I watch him take another bite of pie and another sip of coffee.

"And you don't look at me like I'm crazy. I like that too."

Wait. I don't? But…he is a little weird. I've even told him so, which makes me feel like an ass hole as he sits here staring at me trying to be my friend.

"The name's Zaraki. Zaraki Kenpachi."

He smiles.

"I gotta go," I lie, getting up from the booth.

He grabs my jacket sleeve. I freeze.

"Are you sure you can't drop by tomorrow? We could grab pie here afterwards."

"I'm busy," I say, taking my hand back, my heart in my throat.

"Sure. Okay. Well, I'll…see you here, maybe. Sometime."

This is so fucking melodramatic.

I grab one of his pens off the tabletop and his notebook. I scribble my cell number onto one of the page corners and throw it back on the table, "Don't look at me with those eyes."

His smile is seriously going to make me sick.

"Bye, Kenpachi."

I leave.

I go home.

I crawl into bed. It's almost five in the morning. I haven't slept in two days.

But I can't sleep now. Not for anything.

* * *

When I wake up, my phone has vibrated off the bedside table.

I jack off in the shower thinking about pie and grey eyes.

I get dressed, pick up my phone, scroll the missed contacts.

Gin answers on the second ring.

"Christ on a bike, Kenpachi: you gonna sleep the day away? Kaien's got an errand for ya."

"You know it was a late night, ass hole."

"What? You get cozy at the diner and stay up all night? Or did'ya bring somebody home from the diner?" Gin says with a cooing voice, "Mah, I didn't see anybody in there worth fuckin', at least not male."

"Shut the fuck up, ass hole," I say, because if Gin had stuck around to see Kisuke, I'd be swimming in all kinds of shit with the silver-haired man.

"Mah, ya really need 'ta get laid."

"I am. Tonight," I say, goading him, "A sweet blonde ripe for the picking."

What the fuck am I saying?

"Ooo, really? Do I know this sweet blonde?"

"No, and we're keepin' it that way."

"Do I smell a virgin?" Gin continued, "Be good 'ta him, Kenpachi. You know they squeal the first few times."

"I dunno if he's a virgin."

"Well you'll find out tonight, huh?"

I hang up. Fuck Kaien and his errand. Fuck Gin.

I call Gin back. I need the errand. I need to get myself together.

I'm not gonna let some crazy CSI kid obsessed with pie turn my life upside down.

* * *

"So what's up your ass?" Grimmjow said, lighting a cigarette as we walked down the street towards our new assignment's apartment, "You've been way too fuckin' grumpy the past week."

"Fuck off," I barked.

"Yo, I'm jus' saying," he said, handing me a cigarette in our form of a peace treaty, "You just look tired as hell all the sudden. Gin says your bangin' a new blonde, so what's up?"

"None of yer damn business," I answer, finishing the cigarette in record timing, "Can we just do our job so I can get somethin' 'ta eat?"

"Sure, ass hole," he says with a smile, "We nab this fucker, pizza's on me."

I don't tell him I'm in the mood for a burger and fries followed by a slice of cherry pie.

We attach our silencers to our pieces in the shitty grinding elevator.

My phone vibrates. I take a peak.

A text message from Kisuke. Just a backwards smiley face.

Took him long enough.

I don't reply.

The elevator jerks. Ninth floor. Peeling paint on the hallway walls. Creaky floor. Cheap place, but I've seen worse.

We find the number Kaien gave us. Grimmjow tries the lock. It's unlocked.

What a fucking moron.

We rush the place, guns drawn.

"Get the fuck down," Grimmjow growls at the scruffy man who'd previously been sleeping on a nasty-looking couch.

"Ah, fuck -!" the man trips to the ground as Grimmjow tugs him to the ground by the hair.

"W-wait, what the fuck-"

"Good morning, Kariya," Grimmjow says, kicking him in the gut.

"We ain't gettin' paid to play with him," I growl, annoyed. Grimmjow's a Hollow, he isn't even supposed to associate with me, but Kaien said freelance work didn't matter, and Grimmjow never turned down a shakedown, but it got annoying when he got dramatic.

"You owed yesterday. You thought we wouldn't come find you? Cut off your dick?" Grimmjow growled at the man on the floor, his gun pushed into the back of the man's skull.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Wait, guys! Wait! I uh, I got a bit of cash stored in the bedroom-"

"Is it ten grand? It better be ten grand."

"I-I don't got all that, but I got enough to-"

"You think this is a joke? You think we're gonna let you live when you're worth more dead than alive?" I say, knowing we don't have a choice this time.

"This is crazy! This is insane! You can't – you can't _off_ me over ten grand!"

"You owe fifty plus interest. You've barely paid one stack. Kaien ain't waitin' any more."

"Wait!"

Grimmjow laughed, "Too bad you don't got a girl or kids. Ya could'a sold 'em."

"No no no no no, wait, plea-"

Grimmjow didn't wait. Two taps. Blood all over the floor.

He lit a cigarette, "Fuckin' idiot. I'll check the bedroom."

The guy was a real baser. Nothing in the apartment would be worth shit, so we took the lonely bottle of whiskey in the kitchen area, the only thing worth any fucking value besides a couple crumpled fifties we found in his sock drawer.

We went back to his place and drank it while listening to some music. Called Kaien.

"Dumb ass had a life insurance policy," Grimmjow cackled after I hung up with Kaien, "What a fucking moron. That's mistake number one: never be worth more dead than alive."

Kaien always gets his money. That was rule number two.

"I'm hungry. We were supposed 'ta get food."

"Fine, ass hole. Let's go get some food," Grimmjow said, taking the last shot and nearly falling off the couch in a fit of hysteria.

"Dumb ass, you're drunk."

"Nah."

"Stay here, moron. Gin'll be home soon. Don't pass out before ya fuck."

Grimmjow cackled with laughter as I left, barely buzzed. I didn't drink much anymore thanks to the nightmares.

It'd been years since I'd had such vivid dreams about the before life. My old man had nearly drunk himself to his grave before my mom put him there permanently.

And it made me miss Momo. Made me wonder what she'd think if she ever saw me drinking.

I hadn't seen her in years.

I didn't want to. She had a new life. I wasn't supposed to be in it. Her new life was clean.

My warm stomach rumbled. I needed grub.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

A text message:

**Pie Boy 5:50 PM**

**_HI, K! YOU HUNGRY? _**

**_MADE VEGETARIAN LASAGNA IF YOU'RE INTERESTED. _**

**_WOULD IT BE WEIRD FOR YOU TO COME TO MY LOFT? HERE'S THE ADDRESS…_**

We'd texted a few times during the week, even though I had never shown up to his Shakespeare thing. His stupid smiley face was twelve hours late from the last text I'd sent him.

But it was nice to get an invitation out of nowhere.

**I'M STARVING. I MIGHT EAT IT ALL.**

**_I MADE LOTS! COME ON OVER, DOOR WILL BE OPEN :)_**

* * *

I don't know what I expected walking into the downtown loft, but it was pretty fucking cool for a weirdo.

From the winding ascent in the stairwell I'd been a little worried, seeing as the neighborhood wasn't one of the best and the tagged graffiti everywhere, no matter how skillful, actually had me a bit worried about what I'd find inside (not to mention Kisuke's safety late at night) but once the metal door was slid open, it was a wide, warm space.

Part of the ceiling was raised glass panels, a sunroof, I think. It was dark out now, but during the day it was probably really cool. Two of the walls were an obnoxious shade of green, the other two a warm brown, which looked like a yoga or meditation part of the loft. There was a giant carved wooden Buddha and a low table with a giant bowl full of floating water lilies. Giant candles were lit all around the Buddha, along with a stick of incense.

Orange and yellow circle cushions were on the floor like a modern take on traditional Japanese-style dined seating, but a large chipped wood table was pushed up against an opposite wall which was covered in black-and-white photographs and albums and papers and knick-knacky shit. A large portrait of Marilyn Monroe guarded the table with a kiss.

I made my way further inside, taking off my shoes and letting my toes get comfortable in the fluffy beige carpet.

A Siamese cat mewed at me from the cushions, stretching it's back before it came over to me, rubbing itself against my leg as I wandered further in. It wasn't a huge space, but Kisuke had managed to break the large room into two separate rooms by using a giant wooden bookcase to separate the zen from the work and an alcove where he must be cooking.

I looked over some of the titles, estimating there were probably over a thousand books shoved into these shelves. At least a thousand. Emily Bronte, Russell Brand, Alex Sanchez, Gertrude Stein, Hemingway, Melissa Marr, Anne Rice, John Kennedy Toole, Jorge Louis Borges, Chuck Palahniuk, Sylvia Plath: authors I'd never fucking heard of. Dictionaries, books on astrology, architecture, even the fucking Kama Sutra. Now that's a book I'd heard a little bit about.

Three different ancient-looking versions of the Bible, A Complete History of Witchcraft and Demonology, The Prose Eda, several books on Angelology, even the Baghavad Gita. History of Jazz, Harry Potter, books on dinosaurs, biographies of dead musicians like Beethoven and Chopin. Books on Klimt, Van Gogh, Munch, Da Vinci, Pablo Picasso, their lives and works of art. Comics, manga, countless books of poetry, cook books from around the world, complete mythologies of ancient Egypt and Greece, books on profiling serial killers, books on origami, a book about different breeds of dogs, books in English, Spanish, Japanese, and French…

And nothing in any fucking particular order, nothing following a certain train of thought. How the hell did Kisuke ever find what he was looking for?

"A fucking library," I murmured, for the first time my fingers itching to explore.

I touched a little dog-looking statue on the end of one of the shelves, the smooth stone cold and a pretty white color.

"That's Anubis, the jackal-headed Egyptian god of embalming. Isn't he cool?"

I almost dropped the small statue at the sound of Kisuke's voice. He was standing near the zen area wearing an apron that said _'Kiss The Cutie'_ on it with a chibi anime character head surrounded by hearts. He had one pink oven mitt on as he smiled at me, "The lasagna's just about done, perfect timing!"

"Yeah."

"Oh good, you met Chaplin! He's usually aggressive towards strangers," Kisuke said, walking over and stooping to pick up the Siamese and cradling it like a baby, "Do you like Charlie Chaplin? I fell in love with the movie _The Kid_ and just couldn't resist when I adopted this little cutie."

"No. Never heard of it."

"It's a classic! If you want, we can watch it after we eat. It's in black and white, but you won't be disappointed."

My face must've looked weird because he set the cat back down on the ground and looked a little flushed.

Shit. Blushing and me didn't get along, but I wanted to lick it right off of this kid's face.

"Or not. I don't have cable, but I have a lot of movies. Or we don't have to, we could just eat and I'll shut up. That's probably a good idea."

"I like listening to you."

Jesus. What the hell? Lame.

He smiled. This kid smiled so much it was getting ridiculous.

"Just tell me to shut up when you get tired of it then. I never know when to quit. Granny says I don't have a filter. It's hard to make my brain shut up."

"I've never seen this many books. You must be a genius or something."

Kisuke's face was red, even his ears, "I'm going to check on the lasagna. Make yourself at home! I didn't know if you wanted to eat on the low table or something more Western, but there's an island bar in the kitchen area-"

"You a Buddhist?" I say, nodding my head towards the impressive shrine area.

"Um, well, kind of, I mean…I agree with a lot of it, and I memorized most of his teachings, and he adds a lot of style to the room, and one of my students was going to throw away a big block of wood that'd been cut wrong for a project, so I decided to do a wood carving for good luck for my new space a few years ago."

"A few years ago? How long you been a teacher?" Not to mention the craftsmanship on the Buddha. Did he go to an art school too?

"Eight years, give or take. Student teaching and – and lectures, sometimes. I'm a student, too."

"Damn. So you are a fucking genius."

Kisuke ran a hand through his hair, shuffling his feet, "The sauce I'm using is new, I've never made it before, but the zucchini isn't crunchy at all-"

"Relax, Urahara," I say, touching his shoulder.

He stiffens and blinks, "Oh. Sorry. I just, I get a little anxious. I don't like talking about my brain. If that's okay."

"Ok. No more school. Promise."

He smiles at me, "I made garlic bread. Do you like wine? I wanted to try it and it's supposed to pair really well with the sauce…"

I listened to him babble off as he made his way back to the kitchen, clanging a pan around and what sounded like the oven being opened and closed and opened and closed.

I went back to perusing his giant shelves, looking at all the books and little statues. A jade elephant carving the size of my fist sat next to a framed photo of a younger Kisuke, kicked back against a giant wall with his eyes closed.

A famous giant wall. The fucking Great Wall of China.

Another photo was a bit of an optical illusion, a smiling Kisuke holding out his hand and the Sphinx in the background, the angle perfect to make it look like Kisuke was petting the head of the Sphinx.

Another photo had a shaggy-haired Kisuke in a monastery in bright orange monk robes surrounded by fellow monks all holding up their hands in the gesture of divine peace.

I bent down to inspect lower shelves, these much more dusty. One of the albums said 'Graduation' so I tugged it out and flipped it open.

They weren't pictures. They were fucking diplomas. Some of them dated back as far as ten years ago.

The last diploma was dated eleven years ago: Karakura Inner City High School.

Fuck. Twelve-year-old high school graduate? I flicked through the first few, not seeing any real order to the chaos: Associate of Arts in Fine Arts, a Bachelor's of English Writing and Rhetoric, two Masters degrees in Philosophy and Natural Sciences. Another Bachelor's in Mathematics.

And a PhD in Physics.

I put it back on the shelf, moving to the next album marked _LETTERS._

Some of the pages had fading ink, but they were all typed and most of them fancy. Acceptance letters from prestigious schools across Japan, Europe, a research institute in India, another in Germany. Colleges in America, teaching internships in China, Tibet, Korea, Australia.

Letters of recommendation from a research institute in Osaka, another from a scientist. Letters asking Kisuke to do lectures in Sweden, Russia, and the United States on astrophysics. I don't even know what astrophysics is.

Several more offer him jobs as understudies for curators in museums, offer him internships at research institutes and laboratories.

Most of them are dated three to four years ago.

The most recent ones, however, congratulate him on achieving publication for things like Rhetoric Theory in works of Shakespeare and essays on works by people like Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Mark Twain, and Virginia Woolf. The science stuff was hard to pronounce and looked exhausting, but apparently Kisuke knew his shit when it came to stuff like quantum mechanics and particle engineering.

I put the album away and move on, totally caught up in this kid. He's amazing.

So it's really fucking stupid to get involved with him. Even as a friend.

I don't want anything to happen to him.

When the fuck did I get so possessive?

* * *

Dinner is amazing. I'm a huge meat eater, but the sauce is so good and I've always liked noodles. I don't mind the vegetables. The bread is hot and the wine is smooth.

And Kisuke just talks and talks, and I just listen, and it's really nice.

It's soothing, for some reason. Just hearing his voice.

"…and time affects human visual memory on a logarithmic curve; our recollections dim faster than the time passes since our last sighting of a familiar face," Kisuke finishes, nibbling on a piece of garlic bread, his face flushed.

"Kisuke, I dropped out of high school. I have no idea what you just said."

His face is even redder now as his fingers fidget on the edge of the table, drumming, "Well, um, it means that your face is even more attractive now then it was the last time I saw you, 'cuz visual memory-"

I'm smirking, "You hittin' on me, Urahara?"

"Kisuke," he blurts, picking at a noodle with his bare fingers, "I like it when you say Kisuke. Nobody calls me that."

"Nobody?"

He shakes his head, "It's always Professor, or Urahara, or Freak, or The Machine. I think you've figured out by now I'm not good with people. I try, but I'm just not. I'm _not_, but I really like you, and I think about you a lot, and I know it's illogical and improbable and I've gone over eight different scenarios in my head –"

"Kisuke, relax."

He was getting himself worked up in his head. His eyes look a little glassy, like he's trying not to cry.

So I say, "So what's the probability that you might come over here and kiss me right now?"

He laughs and wipes his hands over his face, "Less than seven percent."

"Kinda low, Kisuke."

"Well I'm a coward and you're not."

I get up from my chair, "Is that some kinda challenge?"

His eyes go wide, "N-no, I'm just…"

"Sounds like a challenge, like you want me to come over there and kiss you."

"It's statistically more sound…"

"You're too smart to play coy," I shoot back, leaning in towards him.

"Kenpachi…"

"You want me ta' kiss you?"

He swallows once, twice, "I'd like that. Very much."

"Uh-huh. You think you deserve it?"

"I like you," he blurts, blinking, "I've never been attracted to someone before."

"Never?"

"No. I-I understand attraction, at least the chemical process. Adrenaline, dopamine, serotonin-"

My lips brush his. I'm already hard. Like I said, just listening to him…maybe I have a fetish.

He sucks in air. He's surprised. I like that.

I suck his bottom lip into my mouth and he whines.

Mm. I like that even more.

I lick the seam of his lips and pull away slightly, watching his face.

"Pupils are dilated," I say huskily, "pulse is up. That's adrenaline, huh?"

I ain't a genius, but the blush probably means something.

His ears are red. He leans in to peck me on the mouth. He almost misses.


End file.
